


Hold Your Breath and Count to Ten

by DoreyG



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bisexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Drowning, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Falling In Love, Flirting, Jealousy, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Murder Spies Away!, Mentions of Coerced Sex, Moral Ambiguity, Murder, Other, POV Alternating, Period-Typical Sexism, Spies & Secret Agents, Torture, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hm," the other man - Solo's boss, and isn't it just like two men to insist upon meeting in a male toilet no matter the genders involved? - says thoughtfully. He looks at her, looks at Solo, like they could be dangerous, "we should talk about this."</p>
<p>...Perhaps they already are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Your Breath and Count to Ten

**Author's Note:**

> Me, just after seeing the movie: Hah, that was fun! Perhaps I'll write fic someday...  
> Me, four days and 6000 words of genderswap later: ...Huh.

Josephine Solo was never the typical American girl. Or, at least, never what the dear menfolk _thought_ to be the typical American girl. From her very earliest days there was a spark in her eye, a spring in her steps, a certain fire in her belly and boldness in her mind that made the quiet life impossible.

She steps into the sun in Berlin, pleased to be back but disappointed by how little has changed. Takes a quick glance around - average crowds, a dowdy matron huddled under a headscarf standing over the street from her - and smiles. Trots forward with a spring in her step and a song in her heart.

The quiet life was never for her, anyway.

 

\--

 

Illyana Kuryakin was always the perfect Russian daughter. Or, at least, the image of the perfect Russian daughter. From her earliest days she knew when to stay silent, when to smile politely, when to say the correct thing and make the correct movement and be everything she was expected to be.

The sun in Berlin is hot, but she does not let herself appear affected. She only stands in her place and watches the apparent American agent - nothing special, a simple secretary at best - move through the crowds with a gaze that has had even her superiors shifting in discomfit at times.

She is the perfect daughter, after all.

 

\--

 

Gaby looks at her with casual disdain. And she knows she should be offended, sure, but in all actuality it's very hard to get offended when that's what you meant to happen all along. Her meeting persona is deliberately crafted to attract as little attention as possible - brown hair done up into a prim knot, clothes stylish yet as modest as she can make them, heels so kittenish that even the most lascivious man would find it hard to come up with a lurid fantasy before his wife whisked him away.

_Ah_ , she thinks longingly - watching as Gaby obviously dismisses her as yet another boring American secretary, come to ineptly do her master's dirty work, _if you could only see me in my glory days. Secretary to all of the posh bureaucrats, mistress to all the secretaries, queen of the world with my finger in every pocket..._

But then she happens to glance out of the window, just as Gaby snorts at her again. And, really, who has time for fond reminisces when an easily dismissed matron is standing right across the street?

 

\--

 

Josephine Solo is... Not what she was expecting.

By which she means competent, yes, but also a whole slew of other things. The Americans accuse the Russians of always having triple meanings - and while the Americans are fools, yes, maybe they have some basis in fact there. When she thinks that Josephine Solo is not what she was expecting she also thinks that she was competent, reckless, beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the line of her body in that carefully selected dress and everything to do with the defiant look in her eyes.

She looks in the mirror, in her hotel later that night after she has picked her way across the minefield as agile as a cat, and decides that it doesn't matter. Solo is not what she was expecting, no. But she will still do what is expected of _her_.

 

\-- 

 

After the chase Gaby looks at her with a new respect in her eyes. A new respect couched in a healthy amount of wariness over her apparent insanity, of course, but no need to run before they've started walking.

...Odd, how the thought of running makes her think of that false matron with her blonde hair flying out behind her. Odd, how pretty much everything since they got back makes her think of that false matron.

"You can cook, too," Gaby remarks, as if from far away. And it takes her a few seconds, an unforgivable few seconds even for her, before she realizes that the darling woman is talking to _Her_ , "is there anything you can't do, mystery woman?"

"Call me Solo," she corrects, makes sure to slip extra charm into her smile as she passes the plate over . Maybe, just maybe, it'll cover her shameful distraction, "and I think, I _hope_ , that you'll find I can do most things."

"Most things?"

"Well," she says, so distracted by trying not to appear distracted that she actually stops _thinking_ , "not rip off car boots, but I'm working on that."

Gaby's eyes widen at that, her mouth curves up into an amused smile. But, before she can comment and necessitate another frenzy of covering up, her superiors call and it's back to professional business.

...Well, semi-professional business. Because how professional can you be, really, after meeting an amazon?

 

\--

 

Solo's pulse is pounding under her thumbs, but still the woman puts up a fight. She's not as strong as her, of course, but she's still stronger than she looks. A secretary in dress sense, a vixen who could punch out many of her superiors underneath. A foe worth keeping an eye on, she'd wager.

She's starting to think that it'd be impossible not to. A Russian agent is taught to admit their weaknesses before they destroy them, and so she must admit that Solo is... Addictive. Take one glance and you are tempted to dismiss her, take a second and you cannot. Your eyes remain fixed on her, you want to step closer into her orbit, you cannot drag your mind from her no matter how desperately you try. It is downright _dangerous_.

" _Do not kill your new partner before you have begun_ ," her superior rumbles in warning Russian, and she realizes that Solo has started to gasp under the less than tender press of her hands. She releases, reluctantly, they detach in as dignified a manner as possible.

"What do you mean?" Solo gasps, when she's safely clear. Looking at the reddened skin of her throat, the defiant twinkle in her eye, she thinks that it may well be safer to finish the job that she's started.

...But her superior is right there, watching her expectantly. And she is a good child of Russia, unlike her father, and knows how to follow orders, "he told me not to kill you before we've begun."

"I know what he _said_ ," Solo spits, eyes still firmly on her. And for a moment, just a moment, she wants to damn her superiors and damn Russia and go for the throat again, "I _asked_ what he meant."

"Hm," the other man - Solo's boss, and isn't it just like two men to insist upon meeting in a male toilet no matter the genders involved? - says thoughtfully. He looks at her, looks at Solo, like they could be dangerous, "we should talk about this."

...Perhaps they already are.

 

\--

 

Somehow, up close Illyana Kuryakin is an even more foreboding prospect than she was chasing behind them last night. Sitting on the other side of the table, blonde hair tucked up under her headscarf, she reminds her of nothing more than a lurking tiger. A _hungry_ lurking tiger.

"Tell me," she purrs. And her Russian accent is thick in the air like a threat, "how does it feel, to go from thief queen to kept _bitch_."

It's bait. And she knows that she should know better than to take it, than to poke the tiger, but she's always put style over sense when it mattered, "much the same way, I imagine, as it feels to know that you're enslaved by the people that sent your father away to the gulags. By the people that your mother was forced to invite into her bed, to save your lives. By the people that still regard you as a disappointment waiting to happen, no matter how much you accomplish."

Ah, and _that_ hit the mark. Kuryakin's eyes widen, her teeth bare in a snarl. For somebody so inanimate, so deliberately waiting, there's quite obviously an inferno burning inside.

"Your name should be Illyana Kuryakina, in English, but you honour your father instead. As a fuck you to all of them, I'd wager," she wonders what it would take to properly let it out. She doesn't wonder, as she takes a deliberately delicate sip of her tea, if she _should_ , "you're not the only one who can do research."

A long pause. And then Kuryakin lets out a sharp breath, overturns the table and marches from the cafe. Her shoulders are rigid, her bearing is proper. Not once does she look back.

 

\--

 

The next time she sees Solo, after what she has started to refer to as the 'research incident' no matter how much it goes against her training, is in a clothes shop. Expensive, almost gaudy. Solo, somehow, looks as at home there as she does everywhere.

But no time to focus on Solo. She is, as much as something thought long buried inside of her thinks otherwise, a side detail. The mission, Gaby Teller, is the important thing, "no maid of mine would wear clothes like that."

"What are you doing here?" Gaby snaps fiercely, spinning to face her as Solo gives a refined sigh in the background. Loathe as she is to admit it, the gestures suit both of them, "what is _she_ doing here?" 

"Didn't I tell you?" Solo asks wryly, in that very certain tone that implies both that she did and that she was disgusted to do so, "to stop the world from ending we have to work with the enemy. No matter how distasteful it may be."

"Distasteful to all parties," she snaps, refusing to be cowed by a capitalist fool - so refined and constructed that she has, despite her looks and skill, lost all nobility of spirit along the way, "but not quite as distasteful as your choice of clothes. Do you think all people dress like that behind the iron curtain, miss Solo?"

"Agent Solo," Solo corrects, tone deadly polite even as Gaby begins to practically vibrate with rage between them, "and, as long as they don't dress like _you_ I'm really not that invested."

 

\--

 

Rome is sunny, bright and cheerful and most pleasingly like the films, and for a moment she can almost forget all that has been forced upon her. The Russian partner, the vital mission, the unwanted career as a secret agent that she would've been able to avoid had she moved just a few steps faster.

...It's a little harder, to forget the brief flare of warm shock that she experienced when she first saw Kuryakin done up as a lady with her blonde hair artfully styled over her black dress. But, hey, the sun can erase many things if given enough time.

As can the thrill of the chase, the danger that she's always longed for deep inside her heart. She spots the followers easily enough. Has to leave her delightful flirting with the hotel receptionist to follow them, alas, but luckily action is almost as much as an aphrodisiac to her as the act itself.

And, of course, she has Kuryakin's obvious rage to tide her over. The angry narrow of eyes behind ever so stylish sunglasses, the clench of manicured nails into one perfect hand, "you are not supposed to be here. We agreed-"

"I was listening," she smiles amiably. And watches, with what some would term as a sick sense of satisfaction, as Kuryakin's nails dig in harder. As Kuryakin's eyes flick over her body like she'd like to do her a violence, "I just thought to inform you that you're being tested. Two men, looking to rob an innocent lady and her maid and make sure that they're nothing more than that."

 

"I know how to do my job," Kuryakin spits, yanking her eyes back up and _glaring_ with a heat that could incinerate a lesser person.

"You know how to do _one_ of them," she corrects primly, and very carefully does not let on how much the attention makes her breathless.

 

\--

 

Solo wears shorter skirts when she's in Rome. It is, perhaps, something she should've prepared for more thoroughly.

But, then, maybe she should've prepared for a lot of things more thoroughly. Maybe she was two distracted, by the brash and unwanted American in her midst, to pay attention to the _details_ that she usually does so well. Her architectural knowledge is abysmal, especially for an heiress of her standing. Her manners, she's willing to admit, could use a little more work. And as for what was stolen...

"That was my father's watch," she spits, as Gaby only rolls her eyes and Solo only arches one perfect eyebrow, "they took my father's _watch_."

"Wow, for a Russian you sure are willing to say 'fuck you' to your superiors," Solo mutters, and immediately raises her hands as she turns in a fearsome rage, "you did a good job for once, Peril. Could've done without the slap, but I don't think they suspect a thing."

"A Russian heiress would've slapped him," she snaps, and watches Solo's eyebrow arch an impressed bit higher, "a Russian agent would've _killed_ him. I was perfectly in character."

"So you were thinking after all," Solo purrs wryly, only sounding a little surprised around the edges, "interesting, at least one of your characters has some brains."

Gaby, luckily, intervenes before she can _strangle_ the woman. Or, even worse, press her back against the wall and do several things that she does not want to examine the details of too closely.

 

\--

 

She sleeps with the receptionist, of course. Her blood is still buzzing after the mission, after the way Kuryakin looked at her last night, and there's little better to take the edge off. Seducing a straight girl into her bed, making her gasp and shudder under the touch of clever fingers and cleverer tongue. _Bliss_.

It's only in the morning, after her lovely conquest has staggered away to rethink several pertinent details of her life, that she finds the bugs. Clearly recording, feeding every bit of information - every gasp, every arch, every brush of naked skin - back to a well-known source.

...There's an odd heat in her belly at the thought, a slick tremble over her skin. She quashes it, marches off to get answers with as much justified rage as she can muster.

 

\--

 

Her head aches in sympathy with Gaby, who spent the night dancing her way into a drunken stupor, but does not ache enough to stop her from facing Solo head on. Undistracted by the muss of her hair, the stretch of her legs, the way that her tanned skin fills out her skimpy nightgown.

"These are Russian made. Yours, I presume?" ...The way her lips curve around the accusation, the way her eyes remain fixed like she knows exactly how much of last night she heard.

If she was a lesser woman, she would blush at being confronted with the truth. As it is, she is an agent. And so simply backs into her room to get even instead.

 

\--

 

Getting into the party isn't difficult, thanks to a somewhat flustered middle-aged woman outside. Getting close to the hostess is even less so. The upper classes may be hypocritical fools the vast majority of the time, but they do like to feel good about themselves and a pretty white girl in need of rescue is a wonderful way to get right to their hearts.

Victoria is... Quite something. Blonde, imposing and obviously as smart as a whip. You couldn't tell unless you looked, which is of course what the aristocracy never bother to do, but she's obviously so bored with the pretence that she's considering murdering everybody and sipping the most expensive of champagne over their desecrated corpses. She looks like a hunter, ready to strike.

...She reminds her, a little, of Kuryakin. But that's a dangerous road to go down. Because when she thinks of Kuryakin she thinks of how the woman looked like a tiger in that cafe, and thinks of how her blonde hair stood out so shockingly against her black dress, and thinks of how she was listening last night with her hands clenched on her thighs and her breath coming faster and her thoughts perhaps turning to-

"I have an extensive set of skills," she says to distract herself, and continues thinking of Illya- Kuryakin.

"I bet you do," Victoria purrs, and looks at her like she wants to eat her alive.

 

\--

 

The party is obnoxious, Gaby's uncle is rude and the vision of Solo across the room - so put together, so _charming_ like she didn't have her face buried in another woman's cunt last night - is distracting enough to be an annoyance. By the time she gets to the toilets, encounters a bored group of young louts who obviously regard harassing innocent women as their main hobby, she's on her last straw.

She knows she should feel worse, for putting the mission in jeopardy if not for swatting some truly annoying pests, but it's hard to summon up the energy. Afterwards she strolls into the bathroom, examines herself in the mirror. Blonde hair slipping loose of its formal knot, blood on her knuckles, wild look in her eyes.

Men have, before now, fallen over their own feet to get to her like this. _I like a woman with spirit_ , they've said, not seeming to realize that all women have spirit and some are just better at hiding it. They haven't winced, when she's stared at them with burning eyes. They haven't winced, when she's pinned them to the bed with tiger strength. Some of them haven't even winced afterwards, with the marks of her teeth on their collarbones and bruises spreading so prettily across their skin.

She wonders, idly, if Josephine Solo would wince. Or, even better, do what none of the men have ever been inclined to do and fight _back_.

...She realizes what she is wondering, and clutches the sink so hard that it crumbles a little beneath her hands.

 

\--

 

Illyana - _Kuryakin_ \- emerges from the bathroom with her hair around her shoulders and her eyes half mad. And for a second, just a second, she thinks that the woman is the most gorgeous thing that she's ever seen.

"I've exposed the photos."

Just for a second, though.

"There were traces of _Uranium_."

Just a second.

"Fascinating," she drawls, to cover the slip, and turns ever so lazily on her heels. Kuryakin still looks half mad, Gaby is looking between them like she's just realized something shocking and obvious. It doesn't matter, she knows she looks as unphased as ever, "I'll make sure to sleep on the idea, and tell you what I come up with."

 

\--

 

Josephine's - _Solo's_ \- idea of sleeping on the problem turns out to be much the same as hers. In the dim light of the compound she can barely see the woman's hair tucked up in a professional bun, the woman's eyes glinting with determination. She can barely see, and yet she's startled by the effect it has on her.

"I work best on my own."

...Almost startled.

" _But_ you can tag along, if you absolutely must."

Almost startled. Because she is a spy, and a Russian, and as a result is very good at denying the things she does not wish to think about.

"I'll take top, you take bottom," she snaps, and ignores the smug curve of Solo's sinfully distracting mouth as she slides neatly through the railings, "don't get in my way, cowgirl."

 

\--

 

Nothing goes as planned, of course, and she isn't at all surprised. Why should she be? Ever since she's become a secret agent she's become used to plans being an amusing afterthought at best. A pointless talisman, against the universe's persistent desire to fuck her over as many times as possible.

She is, however, bruised. And damp. And grumpy about the whole thing. She hates being damp, almost as much as she hates being bruised and wrong. It puts her in mind of one of her few teenage boyfriends, before she figured out that there was a subtle way to actually indulge her desires. He insisted on taking her out for a 'romantic picnic', rowing her to the middle of the lake and only then discovering that the boat was leaking and he couldn't actually swim. She had to tow him all the way back to shore, ruining one of her very best dresses along the way.

_This situation_ , she thinks sullenly, taking a less than ladylike gulp of her stolen sandwich as fire bursts across the water, _reminds me a lot of that._

...Except.

She hates to acknowledge it, almost as much as she hates being bruised and wrong and damp, but she does care for Kuryakin a little more than that teenage boy she was using. She hates to acknowledge it, but she cares for Illyana a _lot_ more than even the teenage girls that she did actually care about.

It would be a pity, to see her dead.

...She sighs, and pushes the truck into drive.

 

\--

 

The return to full awareness is painful, water spluttering out of her lungs and air rushing in like it's punishing her for daring to forsake it for so long. She gasps once, twice. Automatically starts to kick her legs, just as she realizes that the warm and heavy arms around her waist are still there.

"Don't speak," Solo, her saviour, huffs into her ear. Her breath is warm, her everything is so _warm_ , "there are still guards, they'll hear us."

She doesn't speak. But she can't resist turning, awkwardly in the water. Her saviour's eyes widen a little, but she doesn't move away. They remain in position, chest to chest with legs kicking just enough to keep them afloat.

Josephine's breath is just as warm across her lips.

"You saved me," she says, and holds her position. They don't move any closer, they certainly don't kiss, but she gets the feeling - for the first time - that they both realize they _could_ , "you could've let me drown, you could've easily let me die while you slipped away, but you saved me."

"Well," the other woman says. And stares at her like she's just realized something, like the truth has been revealed, like she's a _miracle_ burst so sweetly from such an unexpected place, "I figure it would've been bad for international relations. And it just didn't seem the time, you know. What with Gaby, the murderous guards also looking for me, the faintly psychotic businesswoman probably in charge of the whole shebang..."

" _Shit_."

 

\--

 

She sleeps with Victoria, because women are frequently as easily distracted by sex as men no matter what the propaganda machine may say, but for once her mind is entirely elsewhere. Victoria is warm and naked above her, and all she can think of is:

Illyana, breathing as hard as if she had just screamed her orgasm to the world.

Illyana, turning in her arms as if they were lovers casually rolling together in a soft bed.

Illyana, looking at her with a fierce determination as if she was tempted to just lean in and-

Victoria shudders apart above her with a rough scream, and she fakes her own sound but it does no good. All she can think of is Illyana, and the promise in the breath across her lips.

 

\--

 

It makes no sense for a spy to be jealous. She knows that well, has had it hammered into her since she regularly wore her hair in braids. A spy is a front, a spy is an illusion, a spy is nothing real. And something that is nothing real cannot own things, something that is not real cannot _get_ possessive.

"Is the tracker working?" Odd, how it's hard to remember the lack of reality with Solo standing right across from her, "you look tired, up late last night?"

"Illyana-" Solo starts, the most uncertain she's seen her since this whole thing began. And then stops, sighs, purses her lips like she's trying to hold herself back, "the tracker should be working, I've checked it multiple times."

"Wonderful, you cannot hold yourself back from touching yet another-" she halts dead, forces her lips closed. From across the room, Solo's mouth remains pursed, "I mean, wonderful."

"Wonderful," Solo echoes, and there's something in her eyes that somebody not real would never provoke.

 

\--

 

"Take a drink," Victoria mouths, and yet again she can only think of Illyana. She'd almost feel bad for being distracted every single time she interacted with the woman, but she is almost certainly evil. A little rudeness is almost to be expected, when that's a factor.

And Illyana is... Very distracting.

She takes a glass of whiskey, lets it sit on her tongue as she thinks of Illyana. How close the woman was last night, how far away she was this morning. The look in her eyes both times, like she was in fire inside and _longed_ to let it out-

She only realizes that she's been drugged when she stumbles on her heels, and Victoria smirks triumphantly in response. Rises from her desk, like queen of all with the world in her hands, "I laced all of the drinks. Of course, you were so distracted that I could've injected it into the vein and you wouldn't have noticed. Poor miss Solo, so very bad at her job when it really matters..."

She should be humiliated, she knows. But as she settles herself on the sofa, tries to brace herself for the horrors that will doubtlessly be waiting for her when she awakes, all she feels is the same old frustration that has been burning since last night. And all she can think of is Illyana.

 

\--

 

The escape is not much of a feat. She's a little out of breath, as she lands deftly on the ground on the other side of the fence, but that's nothing new. She's been out of breath since last night, since the water left her lungs in a stinging arc.

She's a little hurt, perhaps, but she thinks that's justified. She thought of Gaby, foolishly she admits now, as a friend. As more than a friend. The sister she never had, perhaps - tough, smart, sensible enough to balance out the burning rage within.

Not a very spy thing to think, she knows. She should be able to balance herself. She should have no emotion, be incapable of being hurt by any betrayal no matter how personal. She should be nobody, nothing.

She's starting to think, based on the past two days, that she's not very good at being nobody or nothing. Oh, and how Josephine would laugh at-

_Josephine_.

\--

She's been tortured before, of course - if she was just a touch more melodramatic she'd say that her entire life since the day the CIA caught her has been a torture - but this is different somehow. Perhaps Victoria no longer underestimates her, perhaps Victoria does this even to people she underestimates. Either way, she's starting to get the feeling that she's in trouble.

"You are going to tell us everything you know."

And yet, even with her life hanging in the balance, she can't stop thinking of Illyana. And her bosses would call it foolishness, she knows, but somehow she rather likes the idea. In her last moments on earth, she rather wants to preserve the image of her grumpy Russian.

"And let me assure you-"

Her angry Russian.

"-It will be very-"

Her passionate Russian.

"- _Very_ -"

Her-

"-Painful."

...Her Russian who is standing right behind her torturer. Blonde hair ruffled, expression of murder ever so clear on her refined features.

"I never thought I'd be so glad to see you, Peril," she says, gasps. And Illyana smiles in return, wild and savage and free, and _lunges_ with all her strength.

 

\--

 

"I never thought I'd see you again," she says, relief making her more breathless than all the running ever did, "I thought they'd kill you before I got here, I thought I'd find a corpse and nothing else, I thought-"

"Peril," Josephine says, gently. Grabs her shaking hands and guides them to the side of her face, doesn't even flinch when her nails dig in, "I'm here, I'm fine. See?"

She stares for a moment, so breathless that she's speechless. Studies the curve of Josephine's nose, the quirk of her mouth, the open softness in her eyes. And-

...Knows. Knows, quite suddenly and firmly, that she could never live without this. Knows, certain in her heart, that to think otherwise would be the true folly.

"You make me weak, Cowgirl," she sighs, but knows by the increasing quirk of Josephine's mouth that the confession has been taken in the correct way, "he should die for what he did to you."

"Probably," Josephine agrees, amiably.

"He should have his tongue chopped out, his skin flayed from his back, his internal organs removed and fed to dogs in front of him and his _eyes_ -"

"Probably," Josephine agrees again, still amiably, and turns her head in her palms. The brush of her lips is electric, and she is pretty much certain that she gasps at it, "but, alas, they're probably going to offer him a job instead. Much is my luck."

She scowls a little, fiercely. Finds that such intensity is a little hard to maintain, when Josephine is looking at her with warm amusement from underneath her eyelids, "unless we kill him here instead, of course."

"Of course," Josephine agrees, and smiles at her lazily, "but that'd be deeply morally wrong."

"Yes," she gives reluctantly, fixated on the shine of Josephine's lips... And then sniffs, blinks, turns her head to the door and finds that she can barely hold back a smile, "unless we find that a sudden fire has already taken his life, of course."

"Damn," Josephine says, and gives a pretty frown, "I left my shoes in there."

 

\--

 

Gaby, the sweet and spunky little sister type, turns out to be a secret spy. Ms Waverly, the seemingly timid middle-aged librarian type, turns out to be the same sort. And she knows that she should be more worried by that, seriously. But Illyana sends her a subtle sideways glance, and-

Well, she has bigger things to worry about. Because she already knows what her bosses are going to say about Illyana. And she already, foolish as she is, knows what she doesn't want to do.

 

\--

 

" _Kill her_ ," her superiors say in sharp Russian, and immediately her stomach seizes into a painful ball. She doesn't know what she was expecting, she really should've started to expect anything after a while in Josephine's company, but it certainly wasn't something so _wrong_. The very idea is an obscenity, a strike against the universe. How could you ever want to remove anything so perfect? So beautiful? So capable of making the universe a better place by her very presence?

For the first time in her life, staring at Josephine's stony face across the helicopter, she is tempted to _screw_ what she should do. Duty can find somebody else to torture, for once.

\--

Things go unexpectedly again, of course. There are thrills, fights, sudden gifts, daring chases, casual sexism, near severe injuries and - at the end - severe bruising to her ribs. A madman, for what else are you supposed to call such a man who is so mad, standing over her prone form with murder in his eyes.

It's the second time in a day that she's faced the very real possibility of her death. By now, she's starting to get rather used to it. All she can do is sigh, sprawl back on the damp ground and summon the thought of Illyana to mind.

And wait...

And her Illyana, _her_ Illyana, does not disappoint. She rises from nowhere like some avenging angel, some Valkyrie come to save the day. Her eyes blaze, her hair halos around her head, she dispatches the threat with little trouble and some viciousness.

She is beautiful. And perfect. And-

...It is an odd moment, to realize that you are in love, but she'll take it. She's always regarded love – the beat of the heart, the illogical fixing of the mind - as a somewhat unimportant detail, before. But when Illyana glances at her, relief clear in her eyes, it suddenly becomes as vital as the air in her lungs.

 

\--

"I would like to say that your husband died nobly," Josephine purrs, ever so delicately down the phone, "but that would be a lie. He died desperately, screamingly, in agony. He begged for his life, and offered up anything and anyone to save it. He died with my heel in his throat, and oh how he did _splutter_."

Some people would say that the burning realisation of _need_ should be enough to trigger the revelation of love. That, for her, has never quite been the case.

"I will make sure that every remaining member of your family dies," Victoria spits on the other end of the line. By Josephine's quirked eyebrow, she does not find it very threatening, "slowly and painfully. I will make sure that you never have a safe place to rest ever again. I will make you _suffer_."

Love, to her, never seemed worth needing. It seemed like a pointless exercise, a needless foray into idiocy that causes sensible men and women to throw away their lives like bubble-headed fools every single day. Love caused her father to overstretch himself, to be lost forever. Love caused her mother to debase herself, over and over again for just one more day of survival. Love-

"Very entertaining," the unexpected Ms Waverly laughs, a disturbingly gleeful light in her eyes as the ship explodes in a plume of searing water on the horizon, "very entertaining _indeed_."

...Love, when she looks at Josephine's tired smile, no longer seems like such a pointless thing. Love, when Josephine turns to her, does not even seem like a particularly foolish thing. Love can make you wise, love can make you strong, love can make you full and happy in a way that she's never once experienced before. Love, to her surprise, can make you free.

 

\--

 

She hasn't seen Illyana this angry, this vibrating with sheer rage for... Well, days now. But it feels a lot longer, a lot more intense. It has only been a few days, yes, but in those days she's saved the world, she's almost died twice, she's fallen in love with her very own Russian tigress. It seems like centuries, since Illyana has looked at her with anything but that oddly soft heat in her eyes.

"What do you think you'll do now?" She asks as casually as she can, even though every single part of her is screaming for her to step up into Illyana's face and coax that heat back, "back to ordinary, everyday life I suppose?" 

"I... Don't know," Illyana says roughly. And for a moment, a slip so uncharacteristic that she entertains the possibility that it's deliberate, she hears the same desire naked in her voice, "back to opposite sides, without a single glance back."

Illyana’s come here with weapons, of course, probably dozens of weapons. She knows about the disc, and knows what she should do. And, in return, she knows what her training tells her - make a pre-emptive strike, take the disc for the glory of America and ride off into the sunset without a backwards glance.

A pity, that she doesn't really feel like following her training anymore.

"Before you go," she says carefully, and turns as quickly as is humanly possible - throws her package, the unlooked for gift, into Illyana's hand before the woman can even flinch, "found it on a soldier. Thought it might be of interest to you."

Illyana looks down at her hands, stares, looks back up to her. Her father's watch dangles from her fingers, her eyes say everything that needs to be said, "you..."

"Yes, for you," she answers honestly, and sees Illyana's eyes widen even further. And all the propaganda her bosses have fed her, all the stories about the famous Russian chill, are proved false in that one gesture. Illyana is not cold, Illyana is the warmest thing that she's ever seen, "I'm guessing you know your orders?"

"Same as your orders, I presume," Illyana nods honestly, and gives a wry smile when she reaches to the side - pulls back a slip to expose the small disc underneath, "secure the disc, bring it back for the glory of the homeland, kill anybody who stands in your way."

"I don't feel like killing you," she says, so honestly that it almost hurts. She hasn't been this honest since her childhood, since her mother was alive to tell her stories of the glory days of the French empire, but Illyana deserves the very best, "I... Can't kill you. And I don't think that's a weakness. I think- I think that makes me, that makes _us_ , strong."

There's a long pause, and then a shuffle of cloth. When she looks up again, Illyana is standing in front of her with eyes intense, "I agree."

She takes in a deep breath. A shuddering, relieved breath, "even after-?"

"I was wrong," Illyana says simply, and reaches up her hand to graze the side of her face. She's certainly not a virgin, but she's never quite felt a touch so... _Electric_ before, "and if I can be wrong, than my superiors certainly can be. What do we do about the disc?"

"Destroy it," she says simply. And is amazed by how truly simple it is, how truly simple everything is when you remove all that is unimportant, "say that it went down with the ship. They might not believe us, but they'll have little choice without proof."

"Yes," Illyana whispers, and those eyes fixed so surely upon her are the most perfect things that she's ever seen, "and what do we do about us?"

A pause.

She smiles, crookedly, and reaches up her own hand. Illyana's hair is soft under her fingertips, the look on her face feels like coming home, "I think we've denied ourselves for long enough, don't you?"

And Illyana smiles, flawed and perfect all at once, and kisses her so sweetly that everything else ceases to exist.


End file.
